ACCIO, love: An epic tale of epicosity
by AbsolutelyxFabulous
Summary: This is what it is. We are what we are. And so the river of live doth flow. -Someone of utmost significance, whose identity we will later seek and indeed find but only after much trouble on both your part and mine Open this. You may or may not regret
1. And so we begin, or do we? Well, we do

"ACCIO" he screamed, flicking his wand in the direction of an unspecified, irrelevant object which will not here or ever be clarified. It came to him, certainly, but leaving a mark as it did so. "Must run in the family," he muttered.

And so it did.

A lot seemed to run in his family. Like genital herpes. And sickle cell anemia. And bacne. But he was a strong kid. Despite his small size and lack of good looks he kept on keeping on.

After a second he realised that nothing had happened. "It might help eef you flick your vand in zee right vay." He heard a voice behind him say.

He often heard many voices behind him.

It was wont to happen when he was often walking down dark alleys chasing after some villain or another. But he had never heard one quite like this one before

"Tunak tunak tunak tunak tunak tunak tunak tunak tun tha tha tha…"

Suddenly, four identical men in silken robes and TURBANS were coming at him singing in some foreign language that scared the grease out of his hair.

But not quite.

There was so much grease in there that nothing short of a Birmingham riot would wash it out.

Mummy didn't like foreigners.

Daddy didn't like "unnecessary" cleansing.

"Oy! What the devil are you lot going on about?" he asked as he swung around, his shimmering cape swinging behind him. "Oh, my—"

He was taken aback.

Why taken aback? You might ask. He lived in Britannia, sweet Britannia but had never seen a Panjab get-down?

No. He hadn't.

And the Panjabis proceeded to get down right in front of him.

Little did he know, he would soon be on a brightly lit, happily musik'ed, Bollywood adventure.

Or not.

"Oy, Sevie-poo!" cackled a dark haired, statuesque young lad. Bugger. Sirius.

An irritant of the highest degree, he was. Not only was he a complete stunner in the eyes of _every creature possessing a regina…_(Severus did not know the technical term for the anatomical detail: he had heard it mentioned—though it was the same as his cousin's middle name…those muggles, and he knew he did not posses one...well, sort of, but that was neither here nor there)…but he was of the purest stock possible. For Sirius here was a Black. Yes, that Black. And he threw it all away…the glory, the prestige, the recognition, to be in Gryffindor.

_Idiot_.

"What in the name of the good Rowena Ravenclaw are you doing?" fake trilled a similarly tall, lanky boy by his side.

Severus felt his blood go cold(er).

Potter…James Potter.

Words could not describe his hatred for the spastic horse-fucker.

Or was that his unborn son? He could not remember.

Severus needed to stop these "premonitions", as his mother called them, or "fuckin' magyk psycho lapses" as his father did. He noticed he only had his "lapses" after his father beat him…or he would have had he been remotely observant.

After he had composed himself to a degree, he processed their comments.

He looked down at himself.

Oh. Shit.

There were no bleeding brown people. There were no mudbloods. There was no music.

All there was was him, lying on the floor. Alone.

…EFFFFF…..

"REALLY, my dear Jamie, what does it look like he was doing?" Black taunted in reply.

Severus jumped up from the floor.

"It wasn't what you think. REALLY" he truthfully stated. "I'm not…I wasn't…the fumes…mummy said…"He sighed, dusted himself off, and hurried back from the Potions dungeons to the Slytherin commons, where he could go to his room and think in peace.

But, of course, he could never think in peace, so was his life.

His idiot roommates were there; all of whom would "simply would not associate with _his type_."

Whatever. IT DIDN'T BOTHER HIM. They were all pansyish, very _whatever_ sort of boy…not eliciting much response except "Whatever", "Who?" and most often "Oh…how unfortunate."

Oh wait, that was HIM.

Fail.

He sighed. How unfortunate, indeed. His mum was from one of the purest families around…well, sort of…ish…so how the hell did he end up looking like this?! It was a travesty.

A TRAVESTY.

FML.

A Ravenclaw would perhaps suggest all the inbreeding had caused him to look like this, but as a Superior Slytherin he knew better.

Oh, did he know better.


	2. As Dark as the Dark Lord himself

In a setting so close, yet so far from the chamber of our dear Slytherins was a nearly identical area robed in an alternative red and gold pattern. Naturally, it was the Gryffindor commons.

And oh, what a place it was. Indeed.

A girl sat in front of the fire staring into it intensely as if waiting for some semi-emberous head to come out.

In fact, had we entered this scene a few moments sooner, we would have seen that there was.

If we were to zoom in—which we will—we would now see—which we do—that the tears that rolled down her cheeks sizzled as the heat from the fire raised them to their boiling point where they then turned to gas and floated away into the brightly lit night sky to join the stars.

"Not… coming… back?" She whispered to herself in disbelief as her pupils dilated to unchartedly large status. She contemplated throwing herself into the fire. And not to try and communicate back to him.

Who was not coming back? You might be wondering. We would be as well. But all that matters is that someone wasn't coming back and our young Demetria Fields was devastated.

"Not coming BACK?" she said, her voice rising to a wail as tears started pouring down her cheeks. She started sobbing coarse, raucous sobs until her very soul burned like an immolate monk's.

Yes, an immolate monk.

"Oy!" She heard a hoarse and grunty voice from behind her.

She often heard hoarse and grunty voices from behind her. But she wouldn't anymore.

"Oy! Would you quit with your bloody hollerin'?" She turned around to see the Sir Cadogan in the previously unoccupied frame of the empty painting that hung on the wall (some ninny had thought a blank canvas entitled "Life is a Blank Canvas—Paint Your Dreams" would be a hit. Unfortunately for humanity, it was). "We were trying to sleep and you woke us up, you--, you--, you gonad!"

The last bit startled her out of her slumfest.

"Wait, what?" She asked, taken aback.

Why taken aback? In those days, the knight frequently liked to use words he heard around the school. He thought he was "hip" and "happenin.'" He also had no idea what most of the words meant.

"Go to bed you blithering idiot! No one cares that your stupid twenty-five year old lover dumped you!" He screamed, arms flailing and armor clanking.

"You listened to my conversations?" she gasped, indignant.

"Feckin' right I do, young lassie. Now shut the bloddy hell up," he intoned coarsely, insensitively, BRUSQUELY…if I may…which I do may….

"No," she cried, in a voice rife with passion of the deepest depths of deepness. "And he is NOT twenty-five," she said, almost regally. It would have been regal if not for her rather skanulous appearance. For in the midst of her absolute depression, her deepest sorrow, she was not as…well-presented as she usually (well, maybe not usually…occasionally…rarely…whatever) was—with two or so stone of eyeliner running down her face…her sorrow stricken face.

"And put on some bloddy fekin' clothes, missie. I can see what you ate fer breakfast two months ago, you lel' tart!" he shouted, with no regard to her current, pathetic, hapless state.

It is true, it must be said, that her outfit was rather interesting…but you must understand that darling Tria was meeting her lover…here...tonight !

Well, she _was. _

But not anymore.

And so was the tragick tale…of their tragick love…

-cut to five'n'ten minutes ago-

"Shut up you bloody whore. I told you. I need to get married. To someone legal"

"BUT I AM YOUR ONE AND ONLY LOVE"

"If you thought so, you tainted tart, you would be deeply mistaken" he intoned coolly.

"But," she whimpered, her lower lip quivering like the three-headed dog's we shall see in a much future time, "I thought we had something, darling"

"For the love of Phineas, would you kindly paste your insanely large gob shut so I can perhaps think?"

Demetria felt a sudden deluge of intense rage, hot in itself as the fire as the fire within the heart but apparently more so than the fire within his pants.

"HA! It's taken you this long to THINK! You've never THINKED –she paused briefly to reconsider but couldn't remember the correct word—before, except with your **f**ucking penis, you little twat! In fact, I USED to THINK that you didn't HAVE one it was so damn SMA--"

"Shut it," he interred sleekly, in a tone that very well matched his sleek blonde locks. They were so sleek, in fact, that many were apt to think that they were naturally so. Tria knew they were not. Many a time, she had seen him (post-coitus, of course) running Sleak-Eazy*'s liberally to his blonde locks—the famous platinum sheaths were, in actuality, clumps of puffy woolishness that stuck out several feet from Lucius's well-formed head. At least his head was well-formed. And luckily for her, that was not all that was, anatomically speaking.

The hair did tend to be an issue, occasionally. Well, she had only seen it twice or thrice in its natural state, but when it was, she had observed that, during the act, things often got…stuck in it. The game of search-and-find amongst the pale clouds of his head was fun enough after a few tumblers of Firewhiskey. Once they even _found_ a shotglass of the stuff in there. **Good times. **But when sober, it was a not-so-subtle reminder or the fact that…nothing was really fun while sober, especially with him around.

Lucius Malfoy was not a likely choice for an affair. Oh, physically, he had all the right signs, but frankly, he was not a prime catch.

"What about love, Luciulous?" She pleaded hoping beyond hope that it wouldn't be in vain. "What about our love?"

He sighs, a glimpse of irritation showing on his placent visage not for the first time, "we have discussed this matter far too long already. I have things to attend to" he spat, a dark look crosses his face.

It might be prudent to let you know that the dark look was as dark as the Dark Lord himself.

"But is it—" Had Tria been able to finish her sentence, it would have been for naught, for her ex-lover had already gone. And if she had been able to finish her sentence, well, he would likely not have heard it because it was the smoke and ash from the exiting bust of her ex-lover that made her choke and not finish her sentence in the first place.

And now we return to the scene in which we first found our dear Tria in her state of devastation. But rather than review the aforementioned scene, we will simply move on to another character whom you will surely come to love most deeply.

Or perhaps not.


End file.
